by Lis Wiehl
For a moment Dani pictured herself riding behind him cross-country, camping along the way …
“So what do you think?” he asked her, throttling down. “We could make it official, and you could hire me. That way you could fire me if it doesn’t work out.”
“Not sure it’s in the budget,” she said.
“One dollar,” Tommy said. “And that comes with a money-back guarantee.” He offered her his hand.
She considered. “But I’m the boss,” she said.
“You’re totally the boss. You say jump, I say on whom. So what do you think?”
She hesitated, still weighing the pros and cons. His hand hung in the air.
“Sure,” she said finally, taking his hand and shaking it. “But you can’t tell anybody you’re working for the district attorney. That didn’t come out right. I work for the DA. You work for me. You’re not—”
“Official. I know,” Tommy said. “For the third time, I’m not doing this because anybody hired me. I just want to help. Do you have the dollar?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “I’d have to find an ATM.”
“You’re good for it,” he said, revving the throttle. “You going to the candlelight vigil for Julie Leonard tonight? Eight o’clock at the high school.”
The vigil had come together with remarkable speed, Dani thought, but with Twitter and Facebook and texting and instant messaging, such things were possible these days. Kids were frightened. There was strength, and comfort, in numbers.
“I’ll be there,” she said. “It will be interesting to see who shows up. We’re questioning the kids who were at the party tomorrow. Call me on my cell.”
“What’s the number?”
He entered her numbers into his phone as she spoke them.
“This looks like the start of a beautiful friendship,” he said. “That’s from Casablanca.”
“I know where it’s from,” she said.
As he rode off, she wondered what he’d look like in a white tuxedo jacket.
When he was gone, she read the printout he’d given her. The old woman’s words were consistent with the research Dani had done into Alzheimer’s the day before. A confusion of fact and fantasy; an inability to find the words needed to communicate, hence the Italian and Latin; the inability to locate temporally, hence the confusion of present and future tenses. A person with Alzheimer’s sometimes substitutes words for what they really mean, she had read. They are trying to say something that’s important to them, though it’s often difficult to interpret what they’re trying to say.
When Dani read the reference to lux ferre, she flashed on her memory of the deer hanging from the telephone wires. The image was that of a tortured soul waiting for release. She recalled the terror she’d seen in the poor animal’s eye and the explanation the cop had given her. Collisions with deer were everyday occurrences in Westchester. Surely that was what had happened. The idea that someone, or something, had left the deer hanging from the wires on the route Dani took home as a warning to her was simply preposterous. Superstitious. Absurd.
Why, then, had she felt such a peculiar sense of … foreboding? She felt it again, a sense that the beast had, for lack of a better way to understand it, looked at her …
And more precisely, recognized her.
Silly girl.
She stopped at a newsstand in Grand Central before catching her train back to Katonah. When she saw the cover of the New York Star, she stopped in her tracks. The headline read WESTCHESTER RIPPER, and below it was a photograph of the victim’s body. Somebody had leaked the photograph. The firewalls and security codes that encrypted and protected police files and the district attorney’s office computers were supposedly hacker-proof, but it didn’t mean somebody from a newspaper as notoriously unscrupulous as the Star couldn’t bribe somebody for a story. They’d done it before.
Irene would be livid.
When she got off the train in Katonah, Dani paused a moment to open an e-mail she’d received from the DA.
Dani—hate to impose and sorry for the short notice, but I need you. Special town meeting called (by citizens) today, 4:00 PM at the Grange Hall, East Salem. Do you know where that is? Sending Casey and Stuart too. They’ll fill you in. People are scared, re. “Ripper” etc. Expect a lot of “Why aren’t you doing anything?” And prepare to say, “We cannot comment at this time.” Along evidentiary guidelines, obviously. Hoping you’ll know how to assuage and reassure. Also go to FB and search Friends of Julie Leonard. Ten minutes ago, 174 members. Now up to 398. Ugly mob forming. All that’s missing are torches and pitchforks. Call me if you have any questions. Courage. Irene.
The Grange Hall was on the square in East Salem, across the parking lot from the library. Dani arrived early enough to get online using the library’s Wi-Fi. When she found the “Friends of Julie Leonard” page on Facebook, she saw what Irene was talking about—a virtual lynch mob of people who were angry and frightened and looking for support, though the “information” being shared was entirely rumor and speculation.
I saw a white light over Lake Atticus that night but when I told the police, they blew me off, one person wrote.
My dog was pacing back and forth all night—animals have extrasensory perception where these things are concerned, wrote another.
If you need to buy a gun, there’s a gun show in Rhode Island—that’s what I’m doing.
Don’t buy a gun—don’t be a hater!
If someone broke into my house and threatened to kill my kids, I don’t think I’d call a tree-hugger. I think I’d rather invite my two best friends, Smith & Wesson.
The same thing happened on the exact same spot in 1831.
You people are all forgetting something. Julie wouldn’t have wanted any of this. Remember Julie!
Dani encountered a similar hysteria at the town meeting, where she had to shoulder her way past several television news crews to get through the front door of the Grange Hall. The building was over two hundred years old, with rows of folding chairs on the wooden floor and permanent chairs in the U-shaped balcony, and windows in the clerestory that could be opened to vent the summer heat.
Stuart opened the meeting with a statement from the podium on the stage. Dani and Casey sat on folding chairs behind him. He told the crowd that he and Detective Casey and consulting psychiatrist Dr. Danielle Harris were there to answer as many questions as they could. The investigation was ongoing, which he hoped everyone would understand meant that there were going to be a lot of questions they simply couldn’t answer, either because they didn’t know the answer or because giving an answer could compromise the investigation.
“Have you been able to identify the victim?” someone asked.
Casey stepped to the podium and confirmed that the victim was one Julie Leonard, seventeen, a senior at East Salem High.
“How was she killed?”
“I can’t really go into that at this time,” Casey said.
“Was the photograph in the paper from the crime scene?”
“We don’t release crime scene photographs to the press.”
“That’s not answering the question,” a woman holding her baby said.
“I haven’t seen the papers,” Stuart said.
Dani suspected that wasn’t the truth.
“You can’t even look at the papers?” a man in a Red Sox cap asked. “Even we can do that.”
“I stopped reading the Star when they said Abraham Lincoln was really a woman,” Stuart quipped. Some in the room laughed.
“Do you have any suspects?”
“We are currently pursuing a number of lines of inquiry,” Casey said. “We have a lot of people on this, and we’re making good progress.”
“Have you made any arrests?”
“We have not made any arrests at this time.”
“Do you expect to?”
“Do we expect to?” Casey said. “Yes. We expect to solve this crime.”
“When?”
&n
bsp; “When?” Casey said, suppressing a laugh.
“I have a friend who explores caves”—Stuart leaned in to interrupt— “and he’s often asked, ‘How many miles of unexplored cave are there?’ You can’t answer questions like that before you’ve finished investigating.”
“Who’s talking about caves?” an older man asked.
Dani didn’t know his name but recognized him as one of the owners of the hardware store.
“We want to know who did this and why you haven’t arrested them yet.”
“Once we have a suspect, it’s our intention to arrest them and bring them in for questioning,” Casey said.
Dani admired his patience and his grace under fire.
“You said ‘them,’ ” said a middle-aged woman whom Dani recognized from the meat department at the supermarket. “Does that mean you think there’s more than one killer?”
A murmur spread across the room.
“I apologize,” Casey said. “My grammar isn’t as good as it should be. We don’t have a suspect or group of suspects. We’re still gathering information. We just want to reassure you that we’re doing everything we can to solve this thing.”
“What are you doing that will allow us to leave here knowing we’re safe?” a woman asked.
Dani had seen her before with her kids at the playground, across from her office at Ralston-Foley.
“We’re doubling our patrols in the area,” Casey said, “and we’ve added personnel to the night shift until this thing is in the can.”
“Does that mean my taxes are going to go up?” asked a man in a suit.
“No, sir,” Stuart said. “This will have no impact on your taxes.”
“We’ve got people transferring over from the state police,” Casey added. “We believe our manpower numbers are adequate.”
“Just adequate?” a bearded man called out. “I’d think you could do better than that.”
“We’re doing the absolute best we can,” Casey said.
“We already have a voluntary fire department,” the bearded man said. “What we need is a mandatory police department.”
A woman in the front row raised her hand. Dani recognized her as a waitress at The Pub.
“Can you tell us, then,” she asked, “what we can do to feel safer?”
Casey looked at Dani for help. She moved to the podium.
“What you can do to feel safe,” Dani said, “is to remember that this is a tightly knit community. The fact that you’re all here is proof of that. This isn’t one of those suburbs where all the houses look alike and nobody knows who lives in them. We know each other. I think I recognize half the people here. If somebody’s garage door is left open when it shouldn’t be, we know it. So we can take our cell phones when we walk the dogs and report anything unusual or suspicious to the police. We can check in with each other. Beyond just locking our doors and windows and leaving the porch lights on, we can help each other. You might want to put together a neighborhood watch.”
“That’s good in theory,” a blind man said, rising from his seat and using his white cane for support. “I’m concerned for the elderly and the disabled. Some of us can’t take as good care of ourselves as we used to.”
Dani recognized him, a local piano tuner who’d been part of her parents’ dinner group. His name was Willis Danes, and as long as Dani had known him, he’d been active at town meetings and engaged in local politics. He was in his seventies but still full of positive energy.
“So if your neighbors are disabled or elderly, take special care of them,” Casey said. “Check in on ’em. That’s all good. Vigilantism is not. But by all means, be careful and care for each other.”
“Does that mean you think the Ripper is going to kill again?” an older woman asked. “Are we talking about a serial killer?”
Casey shook his head. “Nobody is talking about that,” he said. “This headline, calling him the Ripper—let me tell you, people, I can sit in my house with my remote control and find more serial killers on television in one night than the FBI deals with in ten years. I’m not trying to minimize anything, but you have to be realistic. And it doesn’t really help anything when ignorant newspapers print uninformed stories.”
“So you can definitely rule out that it’s a serial killer?” a man asked.
Dani recognized him. It was Vito Cipriano, the reporter from the New York Star. She wondered how he’d gotten in. Reporters were supposed to have been barred from the meeting.
When she heard a cell phone ring, she reached in her purse and checked her BlackBerry. Not hers. Casey looked at his phone, held up one finger to the audience, took the call, and listened for five seconds, then hung up and gave the crowd a parting smile.
“Thank you all for coming,” he said.
Cipriano repeated his question, shouting above the others who clamored for further information.
Casey touched Dani gently on the arm and spoke in her ear. “Let’s use the back door,” he said. “I think there’re going to be reporters out front.”
“Was that a strategically timed call to end the meeting?” she asked.
“I wish,” he said. “We’ve got a fire on West Ridge Road. I gotta go, but no need for you to come along. But I’m glad the phone rang when it did anyway. I was about done.”
She said good-bye to Casey and then moved through the crowd to where the blind man stood, as if he were waiting for someone. When she saw that he was alone, she touched him on the arm.
“Mr. Danes, it’s Danielle Harris,” she said. “Fred and Amelia’s youngest. I haven’t seen you in a long time—how are you?”
“Dani,” he said, smiling and turning his head slightly toward her. “Yes, it’s been a long time. I was enormously saddened when I heard about your folks. That was a great tragedy.”
“Thank you,” she said. “And how are you?”
“Things are looking up,” he told her with a smile. “Would you mind helping me to the parking lot? Much appreciated.”
Dani remembered what a great spirit Willis Danes had, ever the optimist. When she was very little, he did magic tricks for her, sleight of hand with coins and pencils. She recalled how he would ask, “Did it disappear? Because I sure can’t see it,” before pulling the object from behind her ear. His wife, Bette, was a potter and a knitter. She was always at his side, driving him to his piano tuning jobs and picking him up when he’d finished. Dani didn’t see her.
“Can I give you a ride home?” she asked.
Willis thanked her but told her he had a personal caregiver now who drove him.
“Bette didn’t pass the test when she went to renew her driver’s license,” he said. “She’ll get it next time, but they make you wait six months before you can take it again. You can walk me to my car though.”
They made small talk as she helped him down the steps and across the parking lot. When they got to his car, where his caregiver waited for him, he said, “So you’re a psychiatrist. Do you have an office here in town?”
“I do,” she said. “Right on Main Street. But my clinical practice is on hold. I’ve been working with the courts …” She stopped when she noticed his expression. Something was bothering him. “Are you okay? Do you need somebody to talk to?”
He took a deep breath. “I’m having a little trouble sleeping. My gerontologist thought I should talk to someone like you, but I don’t know any therapists.”
She had the feeling he wasn’t telling her the whole truth.
“If you’re worried about what happened on Bull’s Rock Hill—”
“No, no,” he said. “This started some time ago. Before that.”
“I can see you if you’d like,” she said. “I’ll have to check when I have time.”
“If it’s a bother …”
“It’s not,” Dani said. “I just need to find an opening in my schedule. I’ll call you.”
“Thank you,” he said, his lower lip trembling. “Thank you. I came here tonight hoping to have a wo
rd with you. Just let me know when it’s convenient for you.”
She watched him drive away, his caregiver behind the wheel.
Then it occurred to her—how could Willis Danes have come to the Grange Hall hoping to speak with her? Her attendance hadn’t been announced. She hadn’t known herself that she’d be at the town meeting until shortly before the event.
It was probably just one of those things people said when they were making casual conversation. Yet it reminded her, improbably, of the deer hanging from the wires, not in the content as much as the sense that strange things were happening for a reason. It was one sign of mental disturbance, she knew, to see patterns where none existed.
Don’t let the job get to you, Dani, she told herself. John Foley had given her the same advice.
Easier said than done.
11.
There wasn’t a square inch of the football field at East Salem High that Tommy didn’t know intimately. He’d probably spat half of it back out after having his face planted in the turf, making a tackle. He’d run up and down the bleachers when he was in training for football or track, and he’d scrambled beneath them as a boy, chasing or hiding from his friends. But he’d never seen it like this, somber and solemn and dedicated to a higher purpose. Three girls in school hoodies handed out small white candles at the gates by the scoreboard, newcomers lighting theirs from candles already lit. Some kids had apps on their smart phones that displayed pictures of candles.
Tommy paused by the gates where people who knew Julie Leonard had erected a kind of memorial to her, signs and notes and photographs taped to the fence. There were pictures of her marching in the Memorial Day parade in her Brownies uniform and pictures of her at Girl Scout camp. From her art class, examples of her artwork. She was a gifted painter and an even better drawer. Handwritten notes on the fence said, We miss you, Julie! and We’ll never forget you. Someone had even mounted an iPad displaying a video clip of Julie playing the tuba in the school pep band and laughing at herself, her eyes bulging to match her cheeks. What kind of girl played the tuba, Tommy wondered. One who didn’t take herself too seriously, he guessed, or who didn’t care what people thought of her—or wanted people to think she didn’t care.
